


Of Honey & Glass

by airiat



Series: Taros Andrethi: Nerevarine [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: But also, But was it?, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gentle Sex, It was only just a dream, Kinda, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Tenderness, Vaginal Fingering, and a good bit of, maybe a tiny little hint of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25707493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airiat/pseuds/airiat
Summary: In an ordinary tavern on an ordinary night, Taros Andrethi meets Diranali Vedrano and the chemistry between them quickly becomes far from. Somewhere in the fringe between real and unreal, one extraordinary connection brings more into their life than they'd ever expected.
Relationships: Male Nerevarine/Original Female Character, Taros Andrethi/Diranali Vedrano
Series: Taros Andrethi: Nerevarine [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864447
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Of Honey & Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citruspuppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citruspuppy/gifts).



> Written for my friend citruspuppy, featuring her OC Diranali. It's an honor to include Dira in what is, ostensibly, my first true smut. And I was absolutely living for every moment of Dira and Taros' time together.
> 
> Hope y'all are ready to get your hands dirty (with maybe a bit of teeth-aching sweetness along the way).
> 
> Here's tonight's [vibe](https://open.spotify.com/track/4QQFYNshQlEkgQESyO3OCr?si=oJqXTSMITCyKhnq6kWZydA).

“The night still nests in your hair, in the conch of your ears, in the dark breath that shakes the constellations of your sealed eyelids.”

—  **Alexander Matsas** , tr. by Kimon Friar, from Modern Greek Poetry; “ _ Aubade,” _

* * *

It was a nondescript tavern in yet another nondescript town. 

After the first few, they all started to blur together in an agonizing chaos of bitter drink and roiling candlelight and the crescendo of conversation. That kind of environment always made Taros want to crawl out of his skin. Still, it was better than the alternative. The barracks made Taros feel like his body would crumple in on itself.

This tavern was not very different from any of the other ones. It was always the same array of patrons, some drunk and stumbling over invisible bumps on the wood, same discordant music of shouts and laughter, same stomach-churning smells. But something was out of place there that night. Taros noticed the difference before he was barely even across the threshold.

She was like the first breath of snow that dusted the rooftops on a violet winter morning. So beautiful that his eyes settled on her and refused to move. She sat at a secluded table in a far corner, one leg folded underneath herself, hunched over a notebook as she scribbled in it. Taros found this striking--who in their right mind would find a tavern suitable for anything other than drinking? She did have a mug on the table before her, though, taking long pulls from it when something about her work seemed to frustrate her.

“Hey, elf! Outta the way!”

A sharp push against his back. He stumbled forward, fully inside the tavern, now.

“Coulda asked,” Taros muttered to himself.

His eyes found their way back to that corner of the room, but the Dunmer womer was nowhere to be found. Only her open notebook remained behind. Without a single rational thought in his mind, Taros’ feet carried him forward so that he was standing at the table, peering down at the pages: sketches of plants, notes scattered between them in a looping hand. Taros knew immediately that he was looking at something very important—precious, even.

“Excuse me,” came a lilted voice from beside him. “Can I help you?”

There she was: arms folded across her chest, looking at him with her eyes narrowed, head tilted. She was even more beautiful than he’d seen from further away. He admired the black-banded tattoos on one arm that morphed into flowers blooming over her shoulder and the way her silver hair tumbled in soft waves to brush her collarbones. But she watched him with an expectant, distrustful gaze. Taros backed up a few steps, realizing what his presence must look like to her. He was taller than her, built very much like the warrior that he was. Imposing. Potentially dangerous.

“I’m sorry,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just...I’ve never seen you here before.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So, you decided to snoop through my things, then?”

“Never seen someone bring a notebook to the tavern, either,” he offered.

She said nothing, only hardened her glare.

“Forgive me,” he sighed. “It’s been such a long day. Let me start over: my name’s Taros.”

Her face twisted with something that looked almost like pity. “Tell me, Taros--” she said his name like it tasted sour in her mouth “--does this technique usually work for you?”

“I, uh, never really approach people here, actually.”

“Oh, sure, a mer like you would never…” she muttered under her breath.

“‘A mer like me’?”

“You know,” she answered, gesturing up and down at him with her hand. “That looks like you.”

“Dunmer?”

“No,” she hissed, gesturing at him with even more force. “Like _you_.”

Taros truly had no idea what she meant by that. He looked down at himself and then back up at her, searching her face for any indication. The only thing that he could tell was that she was becoming more and more frustrated by his lack of understanding.

He tried again. “That I’m a soldier?”

“Attractive,” she spat. 

“Oh,” Taros faltered, his face heating up with embarrassment. “I didn’t know. I...I’m not trying to pick you up. If that’s what worries you.”

He thought he saw a whisper of disappointment flicker across her face, but she quickly pulled the distrustful mask back down over her eyes.

“Good,” she said, returning to her seat. “Glad to hear that.”

She very pointedly returned to her notebook, picking up the pen and sketching noncommittal lines on an illustration. Taros remained where he was, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt, racking his brain for any logical way forward. He should just walk away, leave her in peace. Shouldn’t he?

“Can I join you?”

She snapped up to look at him. The pen dangled in her fingers. “Why? I thought you said you weren’t interested.”

Taros shrugged. “Drinking alone isn’t fun for anyone.” He tilted his head towards her mug. “I’ll buy you another if you’d like.”

“If you’d like,” she echoed indifferently, returning, once again, to her work.

Taros could tell that was about as much of a confirmation as he’d get from her. It was just as well. If she wouldn’t be up for conversation, he didn’t mind. He’d originally come to the tavern with an entirely different agenda, anyway. There was a new book in his bag waiting to be read.

When he returned to the table with drinks in hand, Taros found the womer had closed her notebook. Instead, she was resting her chin on her hand, eyes somewhere far away. He placed her mug down in front of her, which immediately recaptured her attention. She reached for it and took a sip.

“I made my best guess,” Taros hurried to say.

He watched her reaction anxiously while he took the empty seat across from her. She furrowed her brow, swiping her tongue across her lips as she set the mug back down. 

“Sujamma?” she asked. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get that here.”

“Kjala, the barkeep, is a friend of mine,” Taros answered. “She holds on to better drink for me, sometimes.”

The womer glanced over at the Nord behind the bar who was chatting with a few patrons, then back to Taros, looking him up and down. “I can never say no to sujamma. Thank you.”

He nodded once and took a pull from his own mug of mead, the hint of a smile on his lips. He liked to think he had a small affinity for matching people with their preferred alcohol. Turns out, she’d be no exception. 

She sighed and took another drink. “I’m Diranali.” 

The way she said it was almost begrudging, as if she hadn’t wanted to reveal that piece of information. Taros wasn’t quite sure why that would be.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said, raising his mug towards her. “What brings you here?”

“I’m researching the native flora of Skyrim,” Diranali answered. She sat up straighter in her chair as if this question had finally brought her to life. “The biodiversity here is much more than what we have in Cyrodiil.”

“Are you an alchemist?”

“A healer,” she clarified. “I work at a clinic in Bruma.”

“You must know quite a lot about medicine, then.”

They continued like this for an indistinguishable number of hours. Taros was ever so content to listen to every last thing Diranali had to say. She was smart, interesting. Her words, to him, had a cadence better than any novel he’d ever read. He knew it was foolish, having only just met her, but he had fallen a little bit in love with her that night simply by hearing her speak.

The night stretched on, long and sweet like the last sip of mead from his third drink. Taros wasn’t drunk, and neither was Diranali, so what excuse did they have for the way their bodies had drifted closer? For how they sat next to each other, arms pressed together as she showed him the pages of her work. She smelled like spice, a warmth that sidled up to him and pulled him even closer to her. He’d never smelled anything so sweet. 

Diranali’s head was leaning on Taros’ shoulder, then. He felt the coolness of her breath on his forearm, slow and deep, like wading through the endless snow outside the tavern. She was smiling; her cheek brushing against his arm. He wanted to see what she looked like, but he didn’t dare move. He was sure she’d be beautiful.

How had his arm gotten around her? How had she moved so that she was sitting in his lap, whispering meaningless secrets against his throat? Her hands had woven into his hair, pulling its dark strands through her fingers, ghosting over the back of his neck. They weren’t drunk, but Taros still had to remind himself that this was real. It was all real. 

He should kiss her. He needed to hold onto her before she slipped away.

“I have a room,” Diranali murmured, her voice full of smoke, heady like dark wine.

Taros let out a shaky exhale as her fingertips slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, holding onto the fabric as if waiting to pull it off him. Waiting for him to tell her to. To give her permission to.

“Can we go there?” he asked. He hoped he already knew the answer.

They were walking down the hallway. He trailed behind her like he would have followed her into the Sea of Ghosts. It felt like her soft hand in his was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. Her room was the last door down. Of course, it was. All the better to let his want for her grow until it felt like everything else might cease to exist.

The door swung open and rattled against the wall. Too loud. Not loud enough to drown out how madly his mind buzzed with desire. The room was dark, small. He barely had the chance to toss a flame spell at an unlit candle before she was pulling him to the bed, pushing him down to sit on it. 

Taros looked up at Diranali as if she were a mirage of his wildest dreams standing before him. And for all it was worth, she looked at him in the same way. Her red eyes shone in the candlelight, smoldering like she could turn him to ash where he sat. He would have let her. 

“You’re breathtaking,” he told her, but the truth tasted trite on his lips. There wasn’t a single word that would ever be enough to encompass her.

She smiled, nonetheless. 

It didn’t take long for her to find his lips. He pulled himself up to her, settled his hands on her waist, brought her down to him. Her lips were velvety and fierce against his, her kiss like tasting moonlight on his tongue. She was in his lap, again, legs wrapped around his hips, arms draped over his shoulders. They hadn’t broken their kiss. He had one hand gripping her ass, the other pushing up her back underneath her shirt. They held each other like the world would collapse if they ever let go.

She leaned back, pulled her tunic off in one smooth motion, let herself be taken in by him. Her nipples were pierced, a mandala-shaped scarification below her breasts. As he bent down to pull one nipple gently into his mouth, he wondered how much it might’ve hurt her to have these things done. But her gasp at his touch soon made him forget his thoughts. His tongue swirled slow circles around the one, then switched to do the same with the other. She rested her forehead against the top of his head, her breathlessness fanning over his face.

When he’d finished, she pulled herself upright, looked him deep in the eyes, body trembling with pants. “Let me see you,” she whispered.

He tugged his own shirt off, and then her hands were against his chest, tracing the fluid black lines of his tattoos like she was trying to memorize the shape of his skin. Her touch would unravel him completely, he knew, so he tilted her chin back up towards him and pressed his lips against hers. Careful, reverent. But the feeling of her breasts skimming his bare chest was almost enough to make him moan against her mouth. How long had it been since the last?

He brought his arms around her, securing her to him as he stood up. She felt like nothing and altogether everything in his arms. He turned around to lay her down on the bed, and she relinquished her hold on him. She gazed up at him, expectant, as he stood there telling himself she was real. All real, all for him.

Taros knelt between her legs at the edge of the bed, ran his hands up along the sides of her thighs, but stopped when he reached the top of her pants. His fingers dipped into the waistband as he looked at her with a silent question. When he had her fervent agreement, he slid her pants down her legs, took her boots off with them. She was so beautiful. Gods, he could say that word over and over until it was like honey in his mouth and it would never lose its meaning. 

He was kissing the inside of her thighs, his arms hooked around the outside of them, pulling her closer to him. His lips moved to find the dip below her stomach, and she groaned when she felt him there. Her hands threaded through his hair like she would melt away if she didn't. He moved down further, grazing over the soft hair that was the last thing that hid her from him. He held himself there, felt the tremor in her body, could smell how much she wanted him.

“Please,” she whimpered, her voice like glass poised to shatter.

He drew back, forcing her hands to fall away, and leaned his head against her thigh, flicked his eyes up towards her. Her face was distorted with desperation, gorgeous and irresistible in the way she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. She looked at him, too, meeting his eyes with vicious lust, as if it hurt her to be suspended in nothingness like she was.

He took an arm back from around her thigh and reached forward to brush between her legs with his knuckles. The way she tried to grind herself against his hand, an ardent moan falling from her lips, flipped something in him, made him realize that she was the clay in his hands. She always had been. 

“What would you do to have me touch you, Diranali?”

His knuckles were brushing over her slowly, the barest pressure given. He held her steady, wouldn’t let her come any closer to him. But she still tried, squirming under his grip like she would have moved mountains to reach him. 

Her voice ached with lust. “Any--anything you wanted, sir.” 

The word had slipped out from her mouth like it had been on the tip of her tongue the whole time. He felt his cock twitch at the sound of it, at how it made him feel like he held the whole of her in the palm of his hand. It was an unfamiliar skin for him to take on this role, but he wanted it, knew it would please her. 

“So many possibilities,” Taros murmured. “You need to be much more specific than that.”

She jumped and made a small yelp when his fingers slipped between the folds of her cunt, drawing down to where she was wet, so wet with her want for him. He nearly came undone at the thought. This charming, intelligent womer wanted him so badly that she would very nearly beg to have his hands on her. He almost didn’t feel worthy of that regard.

He paused again, held his fingers still against her warmth. She groaned with a jagged edge of frustration, balled up the bedsheets in her hands as if she were trying to keep herself from violence. But he was patient, endlessly content to be where he was. He would wait for her response even if it meant his own desire would die down. She was so precious. He would do anything it took to please her. How was he worthy of any of this? 

“Anything, sir,” she gasped. “I can suck your cock; let you fuck me so hard that I cry. Anything, just please, _please_.”

This answer was enough for him. He pushed his fingers inside of her, then brought his mouth to her clit. She cried out, hands finding their way back to grip his hair. Gods, she tasted so sweet. He could wait his whole life and never taste something like this again. He worked her over generously, fingers and tongue moving in a steady, firm rhythm with each other. It was almost like swordwork to him, finding the motions, the places on her body that would draw long, low moans out of her until she was holding him to her with such ferocity that he thought he might suffocate. He would have accepted that fate gladly. It would be an honorable way to go.

He brought her to her peak in a rush of sharp cries and quivering legs, fingers pulling at his hair so harshly he thought it might be torn out. When she finished, she released him and slumped back into the bed. His mouth and fingers left her, and he swiped his hand across his lips in a half-hearted effort to dry it. He hardly wanted to do away with any aspect of her, but he was sure she wouldn't appreciate it if they were still wet with her cum and his own saliva. 

She sat up on the bed, her skin golden in the candlelight, and looked at him with heavy, watery eyes. Her legs were curled underneath her, and she propped herself up on one arm. The flush that bloomed over her face was lovely, like rose wine and creamy petals. He’d made her this way, and he could very nearly get himself off on that thought alone. Maybe he would one night long after this one.

“Tell me how I can please you, now, sir,” she murmured, rising to her knees, and crawling closer to the edge of the bed where he still knelt.

He wasn’t sure what she would do next. He was frozen in his position, anticipation humming in his veins like the warmth of good mead. She reached out to cup his cheek in her hand, thumb brushing over the old scars that slashed across it. How difficult it was to tell who had the upper hand, who pulled the strings that propelled everything forward. Was it him with his overwhelming need to please her? Was it her with her captivating touch, the way her body moved like it floated somewhere just above the earth?

“Would you believe me if I said that I just want to feel you?” he breathed, her touch making his head spin.

“Feel me where?” she asked, her other hand gliding down his chest, over the soft hair on his stomach right above… “Would you like to feel my mouth on your cock? Yourself buried in my cunt?”

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He was everywhere and nowhere at once--like she had shattered him into a million glass fragments and her hands were the only ones that could put him back together. It was so difficult to tell who led these movements, but did it matter? He would let her do anything she wanted to him, be anything she wanted him to be. And he knew that she wanted those things just as badly. She would weave her desire into his until it formed a whole.

“Anywhere, anywhere you want,” he whispered.

“Anywhere, Taros?” she asked. “You’ll have to be much more specific than that.”

He loved the way she turned his own words against him, felt it divine retribution for how he’d tormented her earlier. It was a punishment he would welcome with open arms. And he did, he opened himself to her in a way he hadn’t with anyone else before. He was not someone who would entangle himself with a stranger after only one night, but she was the exception to all that. He knew it was irrational, foolish, but he trusted her as if they’d known each other for years. 

“I want to feel myself inside you,” he whispered. The words felt filthy to him, an intimacy that wasn’t meant to be spoken, cliched but wholeheartedly true.

“As you wish, sir,” she answered.

Her fingers moved to drift down his arm, sliding her hand into his. She got off the bed, guided him up to his feet in a dazzling, graceful motion that left him dizzy. She pressed herself against him, finding his lips all in the same breath. His trousers had been unlaced and were pooled around his ankles before he even had time to make sense of it. Gods, she was an enigma, a barely tangible sliver of something otherworldly.

As she had once before, she pushed him onto the bed. Though he could hardly call it a push when he was so utterly enthralled by her. She knelt to tug his pants the rest of the way off. He watched her like she might disappear before his eyes, tracing over every curve of her body that was illuminated in the candlelight, how she bit her lip as she undid the lacing on his boot. He would never grow tired of looking at her. He would burn her image into his mind if he could.

She climbed back onto the bed, swung a leg over to straddle him, leaned down to kiss him. Her palms were flat against his chest, mouth drifting over his jaw and nuzzling into his neck. He felt the warmth of, the slickness of, her so very near to him. His hands came up to grip her hips, trying in vain to bring her to him. He growled low in his throat, an animalistic sound that he’d never heard himself make before. It caught her attention, too. She sat back up and looked at him, head tilted, lips pursed as if assessing him. 

He didn’t feel exposed under her eye. He felt closer to her, instead, like the last layers of vulnerability had been sloughed off and tossed to the side. He would let her see every inch of him, would flay himself alive, and hand it all to her. There was no shame in this. He knew she would see through him, anyway. Would peel him back herself if she had to. It wouldn’t be necessary, though. Not with the way he offered himself to her. 

“What does it feel like?” she asked. “To be so close but not able to have what you want?”

Her words struck through him like a whip, painful but still flooding him with the promise of pleasure. “Gods, I can’t--I can’t, there’s no words,” he groaned through gritted teeth. “I want you, please…”

She did nothing for a moment, as if she were weighing the answer in her mind to decide if it satisfied her. But her gaze soon shifted, and she looked at him then as if nothing else existed in the world. She settled herself over him, finally sliding him inside her. The feeling of having her, at last, felt like every star in the sky was being pulled around them: infinite and almost incomprehensible. With a deep groan, his eyes fell closed, body sinking back into the bed. Her movements were unhurried, hips rippling like disrupted water, so achingly slow it was if she sought to drown him in how good she felt.

But even she couldn’t keep up this controlled act for very long. He saw the way her face contorted under the restraint, the way her nails dug into his sides, the way her body twitched with the need to take him like he had been wanting her to. His hands slid up her sides, as gentle as a breeze against her skin.

“Not yet, Diranali,” he murmured. “Keep going like this.”

She exhaled into a faint whine, eyes begging him for his permission. And he was close to relenting to her. He wanted so, so badly to feed what was eating away at him, after all. But when he shook his head again, the tension fell from her body as her cunt clenched around him. This was something she had wanted: to be told, led, by him, even if the release was delayed. Better that it was, perhaps.

She bent over him so that her chest was laying on top of his. His arms snaked around her as her hands went to cradle his head, face buried into his neck. He’d never felt so close to someone before, so pulled into the threads of another. Everything leading up to her had since paled with insignificance. She was everything to him, all he ever wanted to know.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured to her. “You feel so good.”

She moaned softly against his neck, hips flicking even more quickly. He allowed this to persist for a moment until he slid his hand down, pressing into her lower back. She didn’t fight his command to slow, but her nails dug into the back of his neck anyway. He loved the way it felt, loved the spirit that remained even when she was under an order.

“Not yet,” he soothed. “Soon, I promise, Dira.”

How had he known to call her that? How had it felt so effortless rolling off his tongue?

Her voice wavered, almost on the verge of a sob. “Thank you, sir.”

Heat pooled in his stomach at the surrender in her words, hot like candle wax poured over skin. At that moment, he wanted so badly to just abandon any notion of control and give in to what they both wanted. He growled again but stifled it almost as quickly as it came. He couldn’t. Not yet. 

He let her ride him for a while longer, continuing to confine her to the slow, tantalizing rhythm that kept them both just barely peering over the edge. But he had all the world’s patience, all the world’s time. He would hold her there until he decided otherwise. He was content to just feel their bodies twined together, so effortless it was as if they had been made from the same stretch of fabric. All the while, he whispered gentle encouragement, drawing soft sighs and moans from her. Only when her legs shook with exhaustion, skin drenched with sweat, did he finally decide it was enough.

He sat up slowly, bringing her with him. She slumped against his chest, gasping for breath, so real and solid and present. He rubbed comforting circles on her back, his lips brushing her forehead. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him even closer to her. They remained like that for a few quiet minutes, waiting as her quick breaths slowed. Even while he was still buried inside her, still wanting her as fiercely as he had from the start, nothing mattered more to him than how she felt. 

“Do you still want to keep going?” he eventually asked, smoothing the hair away from her face.

“Yes,” she answered. “I haven’t finished you yet.”

“If you really don’t want to, I’ll be fine.”

“Please, Taros, let me.”

“Alright,” he conceded. “Why don’t you get on your hands and knees for me, then, my love?”

Why did he call her…?

She hurried to pull herself off him, like the prospect of more had reignited her spark, and took the position he’d told her to. The view she gave him of herself, presented for him to take, reignited the spark within him, as well. But he rose to his knees lazily, not wanting to reveal his intent too soon. A hand running over her ass, then down between her legs, only enough to tease. 

She startled at his touch, at first, but then relaxed into it, arching her back to give him better access. She knew what she was doing, he had no doubt, knew every way she could mold herself into pure temptation. Gods, she was everything he needed, as perfect as a stiff drink after a long workday, though the comparison was inadequate.

He aligned himself, taking her hips in his hands, and pushed into her. The moan that fell from her lips was heavenly, like the sun and the moon colliding. If he could remember only one sound for the rest of his life, it would have been that. 

He gave her a moment to adjust, but she took that time instead to fall to her elbows, letting her ass push even more against him. She was provoking him. He’d show her just what that would get her. 

His movements were instantly quick, driving into her like his body was not his own, like a force within him was controlling his every muscle. Long gone was the careful, patient mer who waited to chase his own pleasure. Now, he was all raw and wild, flesh that burned against molten flesh like he could turn blood into lava. Underneath him, her moans had morphed into a string of honeyed sobs, face buried in a pillow like there was even a small hope of muffling herself. There wasn’t, but what did it even matter if anyone heard them?

He was close, so close. His motions had grown more erratic, sloppier, but their intensity never faded. He was grabbing her hips so tightly he feared he would break her in half. And she, she was a trembling mess, her cries of _fuck, fuck, gods, yes_ filling his ears until it was all he could hear. All he wanted to hear. 

His release stunned him, vision swimming until he momentarily forgot where, who, he was. He’d never felt something so good, so devastating. It was the exhilaration of battle and the elation of victory melded together into one all-consuming feeling. How had he ever accepted anything less than this before?

When he returned to himself, the first thing Taros noticed was Dira still bent down in front of him. It was a sight that brought the same joy as when he saw her for the first time earlier that night. How he’d never seen someone so lovely before. Even as she was then: hair askew and tangled, the sweat-drenched skin of her back flushed pink. Especially as she was then. She was the whole of perfection held in one, single being.

He released his harsh grip on her and pulled out, a thin white line of his spend trailing down her cunt. He sat back on his heels to wait for her; she remained how she was for a moment before finally facing him. Entirely blissed-out, her mouth was curled into a lazy smile, the previously immaculate black kohl smudged around her eyes. 

They sat there and regarded each other for an almost uncomfortable length of time. Her eyes settled on him and refused to move, her expression completely impassive. All he could do was wait and grow anxious that he’d done something wrong. Had he been too much? Been too rough? Hurt her in a way she hadn’t wanted him to?

“How are you feeling?” he finally asked her, voice low and tense. “Can I get you anything?”

Her face, at last, lit up. Laughing, she grabbed his hand, urging him forward so they could lay down next to each other. He put his arm around her as she settled her head on his chest, nestling into his side. All so natural, so expected. The feeling of his worry dissolving, the knowing that she still wanted to be close to him, very nearly outshone his orgasm. How unbelievably, incomprehensibly fortunate he was.

“This was all I needed, Taros. Thank you.”

He nodded, accidentally bumping her head with his chin. He swore and muttered an apology. 

“Was it...okay?” he asked. He scrunched his face up, eyes squeezed closed, as if to brace himself for the answer.

“It was. More than okay, actually. Much more.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, drew her to him, closer still. “I’m glad. It was for me, too.”

The silence had become comfortable, peaceful even. The candlelight flickered warmly on the ceiling; the wind heard faintly past the windows. And there she was beside him, her legs intertwined with his. He could have stayed like that, with her, forever, would let time wear them both to dust before they ever separated their bodies. Her, Diranali, this womer he barely knew, but felt irrevocably connected to. Were these feelings born from madness? Blind naivety? Taros didn’t know. He didn’t care.

“So,” she began, “I’m going to be in the area for a while longer. Would you, maybe, want to see each other again sometime?”

“I’d like that. Very much so.” 

As if Taros could have ever dreamed of answering any differently.

~~~

“Do you remember the night we met?” Taros asked, leaning against the doorframe leading into the kitchen.

Diranali laughed. “Of course, I do. It was one of the happiest nights of my life.”

Taros joined her at the table where she was sipping a steaming mug of tea. She pushed another mug over to him once he was settled. He accepted it gratefully, taking a long drink to ease his sleep-dry throat. Citrus with a dash of honey, his favorite. Taros leaned back against his chair, looking out over the calm turquoise sea just beyond the glass pane of the window. They’d lived on the west coast of Cyrodiil for just under three years after they both finally felt the call to settle after many hard years sailing those same waves.

“I dreamt about it last night,” he said before taking another drink, the ceramic mug already at his lips.

“Better than the usual, I hope?”

She was referring to his recurring nightmares, both the ones from his duties as a soldier, as Nerevarine, then finally the ones from his life sailing the Tamrielic seas. Taros’ life had been fraught with turmoil at nearly every turn of it. But ever since he’d begun this quiet, simple life with Dira, the intensity of them had lessened. There was something to be said about the way she anchored him to reality, kept him from drifting into turbulent waters. What he would have given to have her there beside him at the lowest points of his past.

“Much better, yeah.”

“Did you remember to dream the part where you approached me like a mer who’d never seen a womer before?”

“I sure did,” Taros answered. “Just as I also made sure to dream the part where you screamed like you’d never been fucked so good in your life.”

Diranali swatted at him from across the table, the thin gold band on her finger glinting in the morning sunlight. He caught her hand in his own and pressed his lips against her knuckles. She pulled her hand away, pretending to be offended, but her cheeks flushed pink, a faint smile on her lips.

“I guess it was pretty good,” she conceded. “As far as first-times go, at least.”

“Certainly,” he agreed, a tilted smile appearing on his face. “It’s only gotten better from there.”

“A bit prideful this morning, are we?”

“Is it pride if the praise is rightly-earned?”

Diranali looked at him for a moment, her own smile taking on an edge of allure. She stood up from the table and held out a hand to him. 

“It’s been a while since that night,” she said in a velvety voice. “Maybe you could remind me of what exactly we did together.”

Taros put his hand in hers. “You may just want to bring that tea with you, my love.”

She’d soon be grateful that she did. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, again, Citrus! I hope I was able to give Dira everything she could have wanted (and probably a bit more than she bargained for lmao).
> 
> Shoutout to my homie [banjotea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjotea/pseuds/banjotea) for spurring the idea of the lil twist at the end.
> 
> Thank you all for reading; kudos and comments always loved and appreciated!
> 
> \- find me on tumblr [here](https://airiat.tumblr.com/) -


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